I Was Rupert Murdoch's Figleaf

John Bull

Description

A pale ray of sunlight seeps through a dusty stained glass window to light a shabby congregation - all kneeling, eyes closed in devout prayer: "Thank you, Lord. Thank you for saving us." The scene is a Fleet Street pub at lunchtime - and, as yet, hardly a drop's been touched. I stand up, cross myself, dust the knees of my corduroy trousers and reach to take a grateful sip of my pint of London Pride. All around me my fellow workers are rising from their knees: men - and a few women - all known to the world as penny liars, scribbling scum, foot-in-the-door merchants, callous bastards, and reptiles. The massed hacks of the News of the World. We are celebrating a crucial moment. Just ended is a long, bitter financial war. It has been the saving of the world's best-selling Sunday paper from the grasping hands of the monster - Robert Maxwell. And our unlikely saviour? A newcomer to the Fleet Street jungle, a raw young hayseed from the Australian outback - Rupert Murdoch. In this lively memoir, John Bull lifts the lid on what it was really like to work on the 'News of the Screws' in its heyday, producing what the staid British Establishment called a 'torrent of filth' every Sunday - and selling four million copies a week.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir
• Media studies

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 08 avril 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909183766
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
I WAS RUPERT MURDOCH’S FIGLEAF
by
John Bull



Publisher Information
First published in 2015 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2015 John Bull
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.



Dedication
To Monty Levy - always on my side





Foreword
A pale ray of sunlight seeps through a dusty stained glass window to light a shabby congregation - all kneeling, hands together, eyes closed in devout prayer:
“Thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you ... thank you for saving us ... I’ll never doubt again, never never ... sweet, sweet Amen...”
The scene is a Fleet Street pub at lunchtime - and, as yet, hardly a drop’s been touched. I stand up, cross myself, dust the knees of my corduroy trousers and reach to take a grateful sip of my first-today pint of London Pride.
All around me my fellow workers are rising from their knees: men - and a few women - all known to the world as hacks, penny liars, scribbling scum, foot-in-the-door merchants, callous bastards, and reptiles. The massed hacks of the News of the World at prayer.
We are celebrating a crucial moment. Just ended is a long, bitter financial war involving City of London heavyweights and legal eagles. It has been the saving of the venerable 126-year-old, world-best-selling Sunday paper from the grasping hands of the monster - Robert Maxwell, who sees himself as the next Beaverbrook or Rothermere, the ruling lords of Fleet Street.
And our unlikely saviour? A green newcomer to the Fleet Street jungle, a raw young hayseed from the Australian outback - Rupert Murdoch.



Fifty Dirty Views of the World
Fleet Street was always a screaming battle for circulation figures. When I joined the News of the World in 1968, the paper was battling to sell four million copies a week. It was well ahead of the competition, but the more readers they got, the more the ‘Treasury’ (my own nickname for newspaper staff involved with the money) could charge for advertisements.
Everyone connected with the paper and its circulation - staff, shareholders, distributors and newsagents - was still bewailing the passing of the wonderful heyday in the 1950s when the paper sold eight million copies a week (no that’s not a misprint, EIGHT million) and they could pretty well charge what the hell they liked for even a tiny little ad at the bottom of an inside page.
However, this huge circulation was largely a trick of the light. In World War II and the austerity years that followed, newsprint was strictly rationed. So papers were thin, microscopic compared with the hundred-plus pages of today. But the canny readers got round this by buying at least two papers on Sunday instead of just one. And whichever they preferred - The People, the Sunday Pictorial, Sunday Despatch , or Empire News – the second choice was overwhelmingly the News of the World.
What evidence do I have for this? Well, I had a ‘paper round’ when I was 12, covering a few streets in my boyhood town of Gosport in Hampshire, delivering the morning and evening papers from a bag over my shoulder. But on the Sabbath I had so many to carry that the newsagent provided me with a little cart, no more than a box on wheels.
Close examination revealed that half the papers were the NoW , and the rest were split between the Sunday Pictorial and The People , along with a few also-rans.
Hence the NoW ’s magic eight million, the world’s largest sale ever. To this day, to my knowledge, that has never been beaten.
Using the industry yardstick of three readers per copy this gives a grand total of 24 million. What a market! If only they’d had the newsprint for more pages to carry money-spinning ads ... but in any case 8,000,000 tuppences was not to be sniffed at either; it’s about £66,000 (about six million quid in today’s money) and that’s every Sunday, religiously, don’t forget.
The NoW had become the unchallenged leader of the pack because of its reputation for sex stories, or ‘filth’ as the staid and hypocritical English Establishment tended to call it. Of course they had to read it in order to condemn it. Or so they said.
***
Rugby club men up and down the country, especially public school types, are no strangers to sexual metaphor and revel in singing ‘shocking’ songs during beery celebrations. I became familiar with these sporting caricatures in my earliest days as a cub reporter (that’s what they used to call us newspaper apprentices) when I briefly covered rugby union games in Hampshire in the 1950s.
A few of the most popular were One Sunday in the Dockyard Church (wonderfully scatalogical), Beer is Best , and The Good Ship Venus , (no prize for guessing the rhyme). But best of all was a song which highlighted the joys of Sunday breakfast with what the elite of the working class called the News of the Screws.
A couple of friends of mine used to stand on a table to perform this number - in a favourite, but out-of-the-way pub in the New Forest and after the official closing time - usually accompanied by our piano-playing genius, who would sometimes use his bare feet on the keys just to show off.
It goes to the tune of Waiting for the Robert E Lee ...
In some Sunday papers you read of the capers
Of dustmen and drapers, lustmen and rapers,
Girls are whipped, stripped, every foul deed is done,
Lashed to the bedpost and craftily wee’d upon.
A further sensation informing the nation
Is gross fornication round Warren Street station
In the bold old News of the World
That brings you sex with your breakfast Sundays.
So read your News of the World and get your facts of filth unfurled,
You get your sin, sex, sodomy and sadists
in the good old News of the World.
Now just before Easter a lad met disaster,
His local scoutmaster could run a lot faster.
A farmer slept with his horse, it was a female horse of course,
A chorus girl rogered by thugs, a debutante who took drugs,
A young girl from Horsham, no sense of proportion,
By means of contortion, contrived an abortion...
In the bold old News of the World that brings you sex with your breakfast Sundays.
So read your News of the World and get your facts of filth unfurled,
You get your pimps, poofs, pansies and perverters
In the good old News of -
Lecherous abuse of -
Fifty dirty views of the World.
Naturally these wonderful lyrics are a wild exaggeration of the contents of the News of the World in its heyday. I mean to say, how could that sort of thing have possibly arisen from a building that was once the home of an order of monks - the White Friars - who gave that particular slice of London its name?
***
I was recruited to the ranks of this world-beating newspaper in 1968 by Michael Gabbert, head of the ‘Pompey Mafia’ - our enterprising gang of former cub reporters on the Portsmouth Evening News who were now scrabbling for top jobs in Fleet Street.
Gabbert had just won the title of Reporter of the Year for his exposé for The People of bribery among players in the Football League and was consequently lured to the rival NoW by its flamboyant editor Stafford Somerfield to take on the role of assistant editor. Michael in his turn suggested that I was the sort of journalist they needed - someone who quickly grasped the way things were. Someone who was never out for Number One. A guy with a reputation for being clever, without threatening his boss - because he simply wasn’t interested in being the boss.
I’d worked with Gabbert in London before, at the American news agency Associated Press, until I went to Paris as desk editor with Agence France Presse , an assignment which was cut short by having to flee civil war raging through the streets of the city over General De Gaulle’s decision to give up the Algerian colonies and end a long, bitter colonial war. At the height of the troubles the Secret Army were murdering a Paris policeman every day. It wasn’t a safe place for my baby daughter, Yolanda, or for my heavily pregnant wife, Robina.
I’d also worked in Fleet Street before. While Michael Gabbert was at The People , I’d done a Sunday shift just up the road in the features department of the Daily Mirror - a useful supplement to my regular job as a sub-editor on the Southern Evening Echo in Southampton.
Because Southampton’s main line to London was out of action while it was being electrified (not before time) I’d commuted to work on the last steam trains to run from the old Ocean Liner terminus by the docks - a real joy of an old-fashioned trip through the lovely Meon Valley.
I’d had a great time at the Mirror as I adapted to the different skills required by the features subs. Some of the writers had been household names, but the leader of the pack had been ‘Cassandra’, alias Bill Connors, with his tart, sometimes excoriating thrusts at politicians or idols of the day. Bill, then recently knighted as Sir William Connors, was a legendary figure with a following of millions, much